


Kokomo

by Snugy321



Series: Decadence kills, kids! [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, My Little Pony: Equestria Girls, Ojamajo Doremi, Persona 5, Star vs. The Forces Of Evil, Super Smash Brothers, 光神話 | Kid Icarus (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:02:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snugy321/pseuds/Snugy321
Summary: Plenty of room here. Such a lovely place, such a lovely face.
Relationships: Kawakami Sadayo/Kurusu Akira, Kurusu Akira/Okumura Haru, Kurusu Akira/Takamaki Ann, Palutena (Kid Icarus)/Original Character(s)
Series: Decadence kills, kids! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809433
Kudos: 3





	1. As perceived by Ren Amamiya

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experimental story (readers be liek: as ever, you knob! What's it this time?!) about describing a place. I can be said that this thing is... a bit disjointed, a bit miscellaneous, a bit separate. And that's what this place is, PRL. It's patrons mingle, yet they live their lives separately. They get freaky mostly with their close acquaintances and their assistants and not much else. Its also... looser, less scientific, a bit accessible. Do tell me what's good in the hood by sounding your comments below. (^_^)

What once was thought as an empty desolate corner of an island located next to a conflict zone is now a resort. Mind you, it’s not a resort for the eighty percent to enjoy. Fuck no. Its owners are shrouded with mystery and the Ranai municipal government have land clearing headaches that makes Orlando’s Disney World shell company complicationmenetics look like the alphabet song. Tales of sexual decadence, promiscuity, shady business, and even an international mafia, are sung to this place. To FPI, in English, the Islamic Defenders Front (read: blithering idiots), it is called “God’s most hated place.” To its patrons, it is called “Firdaus on Earth.” To most people, this place does not exist. The placard on the pier says PRL.

As of now, I am taking the identity of Setiabudi Pringgosoebidjo. I was once known by many names; Al Pacino, Nuestra Senhor, Kurusu Akira, to name a few. For most, I am Joker. If you have heard of the PRC’s missile launch code being leaked, that is our fault. Mind you, we do not just do good deeds. We also got a deal from North Korea to commit a DDoS attack on Indonesia because the long-standing embassy in Pyongyang is closing. They said because the DPRK is “a bit not correct in the head,” but strewth, who the fuck am I to play god, right y’all? Gangs like the Yamaguchi-gumi and the Crips are old friends of mine, and oh boy do they beg us to do their bidding. I always look at the money side of things; is this gonna procure us a shit-ton of money? Is this project safe enough to tread, yet reaps many benefits for both parties of said project? Is this even… okay? Probably not, but hey.

Our meat and potatoes are identity theft and political assassination. People like Boris Johnson, Habib Rizieq, Xi Jinping, fuck, even Shinzo Abe, have at least heard the piercing sound of a .308 Winchester shot near their head. Sometimes, like that cunt Donald Trump, they even got hit. These high-profile killings are my gal, Takamaki Ann, to blame. Currently using a Hong Kong passport to go around, she is perhaps the most prolific hitman money can buy. Whether it’s just some random dude that stole your pencil in high school long ago, or even men as powerful as the UN’s Secretary-General, we’ll take the offer, and she’ll deliver. Her slender, sexy body can slip through cracks and tight situation no man can ever escape; this is due to the fact that she’s a woman. Sniper rifle, however, is just a mean to an end. She can also use her knife and even her bare hands. These days, however, she is just chilling here in the safehouse. She likes to sleep around with the patrons here, young, and old. And when she “sleeps”, she “sleeps” hard. One apocryphal tale says that she makes love so passionately it broke the bed they have sex on. Even the owner of this chancery of sex said that if Ann isn’t much of a killer anymore, she’d be happily welcomed as one of the servants of this resort.

Speaking of which, we do have a servant working here. Her names are many, currently Becky Magsaysay; yup, Filipino passport. We know her as Sadayo Kawakami. Her specialty is basically intelligence gathering. Due to her past work as a maid in a call-to-home maid service, she is usually our go-to gal for philandering with other members of the establishment. She even got on that bunga-bunga party shenanigans that Berlusconi usually had. Most info on the whereabouts of China’s, DPRK’s, even Israel’s missiles, are easily obtained by her fellatio and hand jobs. She could kill if she wants to, but she usually does not. The only time she does kill is because a British informant basically spilled the tea to The Independent and she off him and herself, faking a suicide in Rutland and escaping with a Jordanian passport. Therefore, three agencies usually knock on our doors to basically not get their hands dirty, the Indonesian State Intelligence Bureau (BIN), the South Korean National Intelligence Services (NIS), and the **_FUCKING_** CIA! Yup. Read it and weep, bitches.

We don’t limit ourselves to physical activities, though. After all, why does PRL have a direct, secure fibre optic connection independent of the Indonesian Palapa Ring network? What is use of a direct, uncensored link to the world if it isn’t used to its fullest extent. That’s where Sakura Futaba comes in. She is the big brain shut-in l337 hacker of the team. Think of her as the Luther Stickell of the Phantom Hearts. Verbose in most of the major programming languages, even assembly, she is the mastermind of the DDoS attack, as well as breaching in to the Swiss and Cayman Islands bank accounts. These documents are used to basically destabilise everyone, from tin-pot dictatorship in Africa, to toppling big parties worldwide such as the GOP, PDIP, and the Tories. People as distantly connected as Ban Ki Moon, Megawati Soekarnoputri, Michael Gove, and even Ye, are all implicated in what is usually called the “Malaysian Leak”. A frequent visitor of 4chan and 2ch, she also steers the media in the direction so that we’re not even suspected of doing any crime. “Its just a friendship bond, what’s so wrong with that?~ UwU”

A close comrade in arms in media is Okumura Haru. She is the big influencer that everybody knows, acting as a sort of front organisation for our activities. The only member of the Phantom not to undertake a fake identity, she usually bases herself in Jakarta, and is a complete culture nerd. By posting lots of culture thingamajigs, along with subtle, subliminal denial of any of our activities, she clears the air above us from constant dogging from local and international media. Though we kind of offed his father, his ridiculous inheritance bestowed upon her is the reason why we can afford this villa. Thanks to links in the Japanese keiretsu universe, as well as to companies like Astra International, Altis, Sinar Nusantara, and even Cosco Shipping, she is well known and loved by the establishment. By using this influence, us the Phantom Hearts are basically left alone to do whatever. This is why when she rolls into the compound, guys like Sulthan, Jack, royalties such as Peach, Chrom, and many more wants her hand in marriage. She puts them all down. She much prefers if we keep ourselves to… ourselves.

There are many friends of ours, operatives really, that does not frequent this resort often. ‘s a shame. They will like it here. It is what happens when an Amsterdam-style red light café mixed with a Caribbean private resort. Every single bungalow and villa are comfortably distant from each other; though that does not negate the fact that most of its customers and caretaker go along very well. The odd thing, at least to those not privileged enough, is resorts are not just rooms and beaches. Its also a matter of clubs, windswept romance, sexual liberation, and complete absence of laws. At least for PRL, so long as you make the call, any of your fantasy can be true. Many resorts out there charge an exuberant price for a wank. Well, that’s not very cash money of them. Here, you can choose. Cougars, or MILFs, like Kawakami, Palutena, and Almira; young debutantes like Paya, Momoko, and Laeticia (though keep in mind, she has issues); even underaged “Lolitas”; they are all up for grabs. They clean the compound well, cook, massages superbly, and all are a jolly good fuck. That is kind of the point.

Just last night, Robin, a friend of Kawakami, had a female guest in, booking what is usually Nayaka’s bungalow. Their lovemaking game is so tight their neighs leaked into our villa. Percussive voices of skin colliding in high speed, fuelled by (probably) alcohol, lust, and financial upbringing. Commonly heard, long-exhausted phrases of “I love you!” and “Ahh, fuck me harder!” can be heard wailing to the warm night. Even in here, the sex is as good as the Singapore Sling (fav drink, btw). Ann and Kawakami put on a jolly good show, though slowly the euphoria, that ecstatic feel of freedom, wears by every single stroke of their hands, mouths, vaginas, and rectums. We seem not to stop; even until the morning we still make love as if rabbits high on speed. Haru, when she is around, always likes to join, but she always said to me to be gentle with her. Well, to be fair, contradictive as she is the “nicest” of the gals, her pussy is the looser; mainly because she must entertain those bastards with cash and stock in their hand. Futaba much prefer to be left alone from this “adult business” and immerse herself in anime, music, and coding.

When I was not getting drunk, dispatching spunk, or getting rid of that funk, I usually became the barista of the café, Champs-Elysée. The hub of under-the-table, overseas tax dodging business, it is usually frequented by the bourgeois, Sulthan, Naufal, Nayaka, Harits, and many more. According to the shit Futaba unearthed in the Malaysian Leak, PT Sinar Nusantara Tbk. alone has somewhere upwards of $100 million of unpaid tax money stored in various places, Bermuda, Cayman Islands, even Nauru. Sulthan’s holdings, incorporated under PT Bukit Darjeeling Sentosa, also has unpaid taxes, mostly in Swiss and Lichtenstein. People like this, awkwardly enough, are my sworn enemies. Phantom Hearts are usually, and kinda is, perceived as the postmodern interpretation of the tale of Robin Hood; steal the rich for the benefit of the economically drained, disadvantaged, and disabled. Naturally, businessmen are our sitting duck, waiting for their bank accounts to be drained. Even that, exemplum gratia: for a country with a sizable economy such as Mexico, less than 33% of the money stored offshore is recovered by organisations like us. That is fucking shitty. I wonder why people have such an unhealthy addiction to numbers.

No, seriously. In high school, when I first meet Kawakami, us kids compete on who has the highest test score, quiz score, whatever. We humans have this engrained concept that two is bigger than one: owning numerically bigger things are good. Pricks like Trump, Buffet, Rothschild, the Walmart gang, inflated this concept by inheriting and amassing wealth, not just in money, but in houses, girls, cars, buildings, loyalty, political position, the lot. Kings like Wilhelm-Alexander, usually known as W.A. van Buren here in PRL, Rama X (read: Maha Vajiralongkorn, that asshole that have his naked ex-wife celebrate his dog’s birthday by offering him cake that he can’t possibly eat), Liz da Deuce, all of them have obscene amounts of wealth they just won’t give to the masses. The biggest insulters of this are these three bitches:

  1. Sultan Muhammad Rashid bin Al-Maktoum: that prick that turns Dubai from a desolate settlement under protection by the Brits into filthy riches’ playground. He owns any kind of companies, Nakheel, Tatweer, even Emirates Airline; all of which are world-renowned and are of high value. The profits he keeps to themselves. He even invades Sri Lanka: see Srilankan Airways.
  2. The Saud family, chief of which is King Abdulaziz of Saud: these backward minded nouveau-riche owns nearly all of Saudi Aramco, the single most valuable company in the observable universe. This is due to them taking care of the Saudi oil fields. Despite this, most of the wealth they horde for themselves. (I heard there is an epic gamer in there, but I am not too sure)
  3. Sultan Hassanal Bolkiah: the owner of the largest castle, largest car collection anywhere, despite implementing laws that restrict their citizens rights to be themselves. Sharia law punishes shit we did here on the reg with ~100 lashes for “young” wrongdoers (those that had not reached sexual maturity), and stoning for adults. Alcohol inigriation is prohibited, so is music and dance, things humans naturally like. What is even more insulting is that he simply disregards the very laws that he implemented.



As somewhat morally sane criminals, it is our tasks to be the vanguard and the saviour of the sudras, the peasantry and the factory workers. We take what we can from those pricks as a mean to subdue their influence; money talks, after all. We pledge that whatever we reaped, be it stolen money, or honour paid by intelligence agencies, we always donate 90% of them for charity. This, in turn, is the best money laundering scheme nobody has implemented. We have built schools, donate money into scholarships such as Beswan Djarum, and even help Palestine and the Polisario Front to get their way, to be free. We are after all, are free men. Haru snapped her shackles as the successor of his father’s immense portfolio. Ann run away from her girlfriend that nearly trafficked her to Turkmenistan, presumably to be Mohammedow’s bitch. Even myself, yours truly, I ran away from a family that can be visually described by the image of the sinking of the Lusitania. Us Phantom Hearts think the same and act accordingly. Though we did some questionable things, at least in our view, we did this for the betterment of humanity as a whole.

As of now, I am surrounded by women and men on all sides. We have just finished a “festival” called “Upacara Lingga dan Yoni”. In short, it’s basically a speed and alcohol fuelled orgy, filled with Austronesian and Southeast Asian influence. The cacophony of coitus, the rush of gamelan ensemble in the back, the hypnotizing movement of the scantily clad maids, all those send me into a trance so intense I nearly felt like my spirit left my body. It was opened by a dance from the owner and main hotelier, inspired by the Dance of the Seven Veils, in which like a pair of a danseur and a ballerina, he strips her off of her dignity, one by one. After that, all servants, male and female, came and interact with the guests, in what can be described as an erotic mixture of Saman, Jaipong, and Zapin dance. The guests happily joined in on the fun, some even stripping themselves down before the dancers did. I look with my eyes around me as testosterone, oestrogen, and heat mixes in the air, forming Satan’s cocktail.

Kawakami, if my memory serves me right, gave someone called Ganondorf a twerk so lethal he nuts only a minute in. Ann is getting on with a male servant, slamming her fat bottom to the floor, intoxicated in the heat. The dance, alcohol, and sex continue into the night. Despicable acts are done in a rapid succession. Many of the servants no longer engage in a vis-à-vis intercourse, choosing to get freaky down several people. Palutena, for example, blows an upwards of ten cocks, all in quick sequence. Pekoe, technically an underaged guest brought over by Sulthan, lost her virginity then proceeds to get doubly penetrated. Wails of pain, pleasure, euphoria, and “Sock it to me!” continues to be overheard as I filled Laeticia to the brim with my semen. Ryuji, a friend I invited, fucked so many girls that I think I heard him fainted due to having too much to drink and too many pills to ingest. Then everything is black.

I was the one to wake up; I shuffled the sinners aside and head for the bathroom.


	2. As perceived by Sulthan Bahri

The sea looks bluer than usual. My back was raped by the Boeing landing gear smashing the runway of Ranai Airport. To be fair, the only airline regularly flying here is Lion Air and they are usually seen as a joke; inexperienced. A short taxi later, I grabbed my business suitcase and head for the exit. I hailed a cab and ask him to go to what seems to be an Indomaret overlooking the sea. I paid the fare and left. When I enter it, the cashier hailed the usual chant, “Welcome to Indomaret, happy shopping!”

“Oh, not really, I just want to grab some snacks and use the toilet, please,” I said unto them.

“Very well, just go to the storage and take the exit in the back, sir,” they said in return.

Unbeknownst to all of you, that is all I need to do to verify I have arrived. The cashier, the standard Wincor Nixdorf, is equipped with a hidden microphone. The software in that semi-dummy cashier, matches the voices recorded with the database. It searches in the saccade of my breathing, speech patterns, the timbre of the voice, and many more to confirm that yes, this is indeed a guy that we have in the database. When I get inside the storage facility, I acknowledge the secret camera, masquerading as Indomie cartons and other miscellaneous things, that records my trot and cadence of my walk. If they confirm that yep, it is one of our patrons, the rear door would be unlocked.

Behind that is a sterile, grey coloured pier appears before me. A bloke I know from way back greeted me in his signature loud voice, a cross of a crossed Palembang man with a drunk Yorkshiremen interpretation of Luciano Pavarotti, “Eyy, Sulthan, ma boi!”

“’Sup, Naufal?! Ya good d00d?”

“As good as ever!” He opened the catamaran ferry’s door. The ferry is designed to be as understated and hidden as possible from plain view. Its jet black, with virtually no sheen, other than the vaguely calligraphic, Bauhaus-inspired logo of the resort, PRL. I carry all my belongings, and me, inside. I sit in a seat beside the window, waiting for the diesel Wartsila to start chugging.

“So, why no Darjeeling today?” Naufal asked.

“Nah, the property down in Shanghai needs help,” I answered.

“I thought that shit good.” He faces me and places his right hand under his chin.

“Yeah, it was failing. Shame, its located in the old city district.”

“Turns out the Chinese likes modernisation.”

“The ching chong ping ling, not Taiwan.” We laughed.

The ferry leaves the pier as we speak. The worn-out message of “Welcome to PRL” blares from the hi-fi sound system came preinstalled in each of these ferries. The music, or rather muzak, makes itself known throughout the ship. I keep on chatting with Naufal talking about all our business ventures; everything that we did, everything about girls, sometimes everything about our tax monies that we have not paid yet. I really do wonder if he established this resort based on his tax evasion alone. I maybe would never find out. He never revealed anything that he does. He is weirdly secretive, Naufal is. Though he is quite the sociable guy, as obscenely awkward as he is, like a Muslim Berlusconi, everything that he does not want the public to see, he buries it deep. That is why the identity of the rapper Grilled Cheese Sandwich, the pianist Grace Note, the mad philander rockstar Prince Bolero, even Umar Darmawan, is never known until he does reveal it himself. Sometimes, he does not even allow people to see his phone.

After some aimless conversation the ship arrived at the pier of the resort it's located about a short walk from the main building; which itself is basically the body of a bird which its wings were bungalows and villas each owned by their patrons. I walked down and brought my suitcase with me as Naufal lead the way into the building. The hot tropical sun radiates over my head as slowly but surely, I sat back relax and enter a mood of vacation. I was greeted by my favourite servant there, a girl name Palutena I know from way back. She is a replacement of my wife which I usually left at my home longing, languishing for another meeting with me; even though my heart has never stayed with her again since I came into this resort. She said unto me, “Welcome back, Sulthan,” and offered me a very refreshing drink of a Singapore Sling.

I sipped a bit of that drink and compliment back, “Thank you so much for your welcome. I am glad that you stay in the way that you were. Sucking cocks and fucking dicks between your tits, I really like that element of you of keeping yourself pure even though you are surrounded with sin, with song, with sex with things that you really shouldn’t touch; because I know you’re my goddess.”

She laughed, “Ha-ha. I like your joke sometimes,” she said back.

We kissed for a bit; “It seems that Mrs. Darjeeling hasn’t been kind to that rod of yours.”

“Ah, well.”

Naufal shook my hands once again and leaves to his compound. I myself stayed awhile in that central building. It is almost insultingly tropical, sort of a tacky, yet more thoughtful version of a Samoan communal fale, with a thatched roof like a pendhapa in Javanese architecture. Its where the party is, a bar and a club rolled into one. The place itself has an oval bar in the centre, with a (horrifyingly rough) bamboo pole in the middle. This is used as the dance pole, where girls like my gal here Palutena, Momoko, Rosalina, and Cadance gave a show unlike any other. Forget Stringfellow, forget Tribecca; if you want damn near excellent striptease-cum-pole dance with a touch of cultural refinement, come here. Pay up, and you shall see.

Shake a ~~dick~~ stick at any bar in the world and you shall fail at comparing the sheer vastness of drinks served here. Many of the male servants, Robin for example, have mastered mixology excellently. Any of the classics, and sometimes the new and hot, are served here. Many of the patrons’ favourite here are the Singapore Sling; though not exactly like how you think it is. Yes, it complies with the IBA’s recipe, but we add something that spices things up: caffeine. Yup. You did not read that wrong. Powdered caffeine is sold almost freely in any apothecaries in Indonesia; it is the closest thing that we can have to cocaine (though if you’re friends with Setiabudi, he might hook you up with a friend of his and give you the good-good). Holy shit is it nice. That signature flavour of cherries, pineapple, and lime coupled with that drowsy confidence and enduring blast of light; that is what makes this Sling fucking fantastic.

And when I was there, sipping on my drink, I cast sight of an unusual person; someone not of this place; “Oh, hullo.”

“Oh, hey! It’s the famous Sulthan Bahri!” she yelped.

“As I live and breathe.”

“You still remember me, right? Okumura Haru?”

“Ah yes; you’re the gal back from the concert in Nagoya.”

We shake hands. I vaguely remember this gal. She a socialite, always cutely flirt with my friends, but only left a man hanging. Her messy bobbed hair always bounces whenever she attends a social gathering, be it a shareholders’ party, New Year’s Eve, trade shows, classical music concerts, and many more. Her effervescent personality jive well with us, the one percent. Despite her status, nobody has ever met her outside of a communal context. Well, I say everyone….

“It’s nice to meet you again.”

“Indeed, you are hot stuff for everyone here; everyone desires you.”

“Oh, that’s nice of them. Well, I kind of like my space, though.”

“I see. Say, why don’t we ditch this place and head over to my villa?”

“Hmm, I dunno. I’ll consider it.”

“Sounds cool.”

Then she left, just like that.

So, there I am, alone again. Sometimes, I like being alone. Loneliness brings out the true “me”. Nothing is more satisfying than, for example, looking out to the sea and hear the whispers of the waves echoing who you truly are. Nothing is more satisfying than to pour it all into a project that not many people know about and slam-dunking it for the world to see once you deem it to be finished. Nothing is more than, to quote an Art Assignment video, “…to empty yourself completely,” so that you may fill it again. I usually do that by, well, staying very still in where I sit and let the captain of my brain sail the ship far away to a place I never thought to exist. The tropical drink melting in my hand, the music drifting in and out of my ear, the people coming and going. It’s all very… tranquil.

After some time sitting there, I decided to call up Palutena and head for the indoor spa with her. As you might (not) know, PRL really likes to keep services personal. Even in situation where complete anonymity is expected, they like to add that intimate touch to everything. The policy here is that most of the servants here held about twelve customers, be it friends, lovers, even strangers. Momoko, for example, handles Naufal and several of his sex-hungry friends, a guy called Leon, and mostly that. Becky handles everyone in Budi’s villa and their friends. A newcomer called Sunset, Aloe’s friend, handles mostly royalties, William-Alexander, Cadance and her husband, Chrom, and so on. The spa, speaking of which, is located underground, inside what seems to be a nice park for you to walk upon. In there is where most restaurants, café, and other facilities that are not related to alcohol, sex, and accommodation are located. The spa is in the back, separated by a THX-certified soundproof wall. Its vaguely Japanese in influence, but has facilities such as a sauna, showers, and the like.

“Well then, here we are.”

I grabbed her supple, thick bottom; “Hell yeah.”

“Well, shall we get going?”

“With utmost pleasure.”

I strip down until nothing is left of my modesty; Palutena does the same. We dip our toes to the flower laden waters as our naked bodies couple with each other. My lips and hers fence against each other each step we take on drowning ourselves; either with dihydrogen monoxide, or endorphin. Once we hit base, we sit at the terraced edges of the pool. Her hands sometimes massage my extremities, my arms, my legs, my penis. She is quite profoundly aroused all the time, setting up her alto, husky, velvety voice when she demands something from her patrons. Even negating that, nobody, not even the staunchest of asexuals, can avoid her charm and be lulled in some sort of erotic romance. That is why she is favourite call girl.

“Liking this private moment of ours?”

“Had I never?”

I replied her movement with a cheeky plunge underwater and I start rubbing her pussy. Her moans, angelically melismatic, are almost always a treat. Her face turns from what seems to be akin to a cream cheese to a reddish cherry. The water ripples playing around with her crevices as her hands grip tighter on my shaft. She jerks it up and down, up and down, sending us both into a frenzy so intense not many people outside of this resort might experience. Our tongues continue the offence on our mouths, slapping and spilling slob on the bath water. Our foreplay seems to be fruitful.

“Ahhn, Sulthan, keep going.”

“You too, Palutena.”

We stayed like this for about seven minutes, at which point it seems as our souls departed our body, into the euphoria. Dopamine and endorphin rush in our brains, like a water in a hydroelectric dam. Her hands never let go of my sword, so did my hands never leave her sheath. White ropes and clear-yellowish effluvia fly furiously, flinging it onto the walls, the spa, our bodies. We took a minute to give ourselves room to breathe. The initiation is complete, she is ready for the _plat principal._

“’Splay that pussy for the camera.”

She obliges.

“Like what you see? You never get to penetrate heaven’s door until now.”

“May I flood those streets with my seeds, then?”

“Surely.”

She prepares herself by expanding her embrace. She hugs me close, but not so close as to snap my cock in half. I rubbed that lingga over her yoni. She starts to close her eyes and lets herself go. She moans, she groans, she hisses, she pisses. Anything that can describe a sensory overload, she did. I kind of do the same, though I push through the pain and slowly, but surely, makes my way into her worn, but still tight, vagina. Her vulva expands, like the roof of Al-Wakrah Stadium in Qatar, only much more splayed open. I feel that familiar warmth, like a fishy warm custard, enveloping my erect wood. I bite her neck as I hilted.

“That’s it, good girl.”

“Woof woof!”

I started to move my hips to and fro, turning our spa into basically a wave pool. She yelped my name over and over, interlaced with expletives signifying pleasure. Her leek green hair fans out in the water as she holds on to me for dear life. She wraps her leg around me, hugs me close, and let her entire body receive my administration. It is a profound thing, sex is. It fills you up without food, yet leaving you wanting for more. It is intoxicating, but not alcohol. It is addictive, without the government tailing you all the time. My sausage longs for her buns to sandwich it each time I pull out. Slowly too, her liquids pool up in the shallow waters and fills the room with that familiar musk of erotica.

“Oh, your cock truly is the best! Nothing can beat it!”

“I’m quite honoured.”

As our pace gets faster, I started to pin her to the dry floor and pound her harder, like making mochi. She begs me to go ever faster, ever rougher, near rape-like. Shit. Even though I am familiar with her shenanigans, that’s a bit too much for me. I tried as best as I can, abusing my genitalia, and hers, into sexual transcendence. I nearly enervated myself from this cardio that she put me through. But hey, when you are a goddess deprived of even the most basic of satisfaction, you’d do anything for it. Her breasts sway beside her body; its nipples hypnotically move in and out of my field of vision. Her face slowly draws complete joy, overflowing happiness. Her tongue, lolled out and covered in slob, extends and lands on the right side of her face. Her eyes are white. And then, just then….

“Yes, yes! That is it, Sulthan!”

“Oh yeah, I love you Palutena!”

And then silence. I want to indulge more but I cannot. I woke up in bed the next day.


End file.
